


And the Mountains Trembled

by Anonymous



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: The Fifth Elephant, Copious Consumption of Cucumber Sandwiches, F/F, Femslash, First Kiss, Magrat Has Bad Luck With Dinner Parties, POV Female Character, Politics, Polyamory, Post-Carpe Jugulum, Vampires, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 22:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Prompt:so in the fifth elephant it's mentioned that even Lancre sent diplomats, and I was thinking what if they just sent Magrat and she met Margolotta and they kissed----Magrat Garlick, witch queen of Lancre, arrives in Uberwald to attend the coronation of the Low King. Lady Margolotta takes notice. (Featuring dinner invitations, thwarted expectations, a semi-omniscient landscape, and for some reason, those cucumber sandwiches you get at fancy parties.)





	And the Mountains Trembled

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [academy_x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/academy_x/pseuds/academy_x) in the [discexchange17](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/discexchange17) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> so in the fifth elephant it's mentioned that even Lancre sent diplomats, and I was thinking what if they just sent Magrat and she met Margolotta and they kissed
> 
> optional elements to include: Margolotta admiring Magrat's fancy flying pants, Magrat liking Margolotta's bat necklace, Magrat being in Überwald on a diplomatic mission (...or on holiday), Margolotta teasing Magrat over her tendency to depose kings

So. Überwald wanted diplomats. The closest thing Lancre had to a diplomat was Nanny Ogg, but it was generally agreed that sending her would be a terrible idea, so they sent Magrat instead. (She figured she could do with a vacation.)  
  
She had heard the roads could be treacherous, so she went three weeks early, just in case. She arrived in record time, feeling somewhat puzzled; she had been warned repeatedly about dangerous vagabonds, but perhaps the rumors were exaggerated. She was unaware of the numerous highway robbers, rogues, and ne’er-do-wells who heard that a Lancre witch was coming their way and promptly decided to be elsewhere, generally an elsewhere that was several miles away from the mysterious Lancre witch’s predicted travel path.  
  
They’d _heard_ about Lancre witches.  
  
She went by carriage. A broomstick was tucked in the corner and her prized flying pants were tucked in her luggage, but she was very sure that delegates from foreign countries were supposed to arrive via carriage with an entourage and a great deal of pomp and circumstance. She didn’t have much of the latter, and she didn’t feel the need to bring anyone else along, so she ended up directing the horses while the lightweight carriage bounced along behind them, carrying her trunk and her broom. It was ridiculous, but that was how coronations were supposed to be, right?  
  
It was odd, being this far away from Lancre. Her home had a… hum to it, you might say, something that dwelled in the soil and the craggy peaks of the mountains. Uberwald had enough craggy peaks, to be sure, but the hum wasn’t there. Between that and spending an extended period away from her child for the first time, she was feeling destabilized.  
  
Time for a change, perhaps.  
  
  
  
  
When a witch enters a land not her own, the land takes notice. It shifted and groaned in Magrat Garlick’s wake. She crossed rivers and the waters churned and spat furiously at their rocky banks. She passed through a forest and the trees swayed and crashed like the gnashing of teeth.  
  
This phenomenon was not entirely unheard of. The Disc was made of many overlapping plates, each of which could build tension over years and years until they lurched all at once in a burst of seismic energy that could destroy entire cities. Sometimes this tension could be bled off gently in a series of small movements, and sometimes the land was left with no choice but to prepare itself to be ripped in two. After the arrival of the ambassador from Lancre, a couple of other witches in a few isolated towns tucked away in the mountains paused to listen to the ground. They came to the conclusion that a seismic shift must be imminent, because what other force could be so dangerous as to cause the earth to ready for a quake?  
  
  
  
  
It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun had lost the harsh, unforgiving brightness of noon and was now a soft amber jewel in a cloudless blue sky. The trees and towns and meadows dripped with golden light.  
  
Lady Margolotta closed the curtains with a huff. She had been hoping that this time of day would be kinder to her, ah, _skin condition,_ but this was actually worse—something about the light quality was more obvious, more physical, and therefore more difficult to bear.  
  
“Igor,” she said. “I could do vith a glass of pomegranate juice.”  
  
“Of courthe,” said Igor from two feet behind her elbow, despite her having been alone in her rooms up until a few seconds ago. “Chilled?”  
  
“Yes, but no ice, thank you.”  
  
Igor left swiftly (the floor creaked unevenly due to his lopsided gait) and returned with her drink. She took a sip. She asked, “Igor, have you ever vondered vhat the point of having sunlight in Uberwald is? Our population is primarily vampires, verewolves, and dwarves. None of us are particularly likely to open a suntanning parlor.”  
  
“I couldn’t thay, Your Ladythip. Maybe the humanth have uthe for it. Cropth and all that.”  
  
Right. The humans. Although they did not yet have any major leaders of their own, as traditionally the local vampire lord or lady would suffice, Margolotta was aware that they were an increasingly influential faction. This was especially due to technological advances and the opportunities that the breakup of the Evil Empire and the tentative period of peace between the vampire, werewolf, and dwarven powers had afforded them. They could prove dangerous. She was keeping an eye on them.  
  
“Thpeaking of humanth,” said Igor. “There ith newth related to the coronation guetht litht. I heard from my couthin Igor.”  
  
“What news?”  
  
“The delegate from Lancre hath jutht arrived, Ladythip.”  
  
Margolotta adjusted the hem of her pink cardigan. Lancre! Now this was interesting. She had no informants there, mostly because the country had no political power or valuable exports to speak of, unless you counted desperate youths seeking a life elsewhere—and some _very_ strange rumors. “Who?”  
  
Igor hesitated. “Er…”  
  
“What is it, Igor?” she said impatiently.  
  
“You’re not going to like thith, Ladythip.”  
  
“I am sure I am up to it,” she said. “Spill.”  
  
“It’th Magrat Garlick.”  
  
Silence. Then Margolotta said, “The queen?”  
  
“Her Majethty the Queen of Lancre. She’th coming up to Bonk ath we thpeak.”  
  
“The _witch_?”  
  
“Yeth, Ladythip.”  
  
“The one who disposed of those vampires?”  
  
“There are thertaintly rumorth, Your Ladythip, but they are only rumorth—”  
  
“I am well aware of vhat is a rumor and what is not,” she said sharply. She set her glass of juice down abruptly on a nearby side table, which was draped in a pink chintz cloth that matched the lounge chairs and the curtains. “I’ll be in my coffin. Don’t wake me—unless it’s news about the Ankh-Morpork delegate, it’s not important.”  
  
She strode away, thinking furiously, turning the name over in her mind. Magrat Garlick. _Magrat_ Garlick. Magrat _Garlick. Magrat Garlick._ Even her name was poison. The story about the coven of three, the pastor, the witch queen, and what they did to the vampires that tried to muscle their way into their backwater country—it had spread very quickly in certain circles. Especially circles that involved literally sitting in a circle and saying things like, “Hello, my name is Lady Margolotta, and I am a blood drinking addict. My last drop of blood was…” and so on. For the Black Ribboners, it was a cautionary tale.  
  
Of course, she knew she would never meet the same fate that met the Queen of Lancre’s last enemy. The Magpyrs were utter idiots, absolute _fools_ , who had succumbed to their weakness and mistook it for strength. She had met the Count once; he had been a dreadful and obnoxious man who thought he could protect against sunlight and holy symbols by pretending the stories about them weren’t important. (Lady Margolotta would never be so stupid as to think that stories weren’t important.)  
  
Lancre had sent a vampire-killer. Ye gods. A vampire-killer! In _this_ political climate! What were they thinking?  
  
She would have to invite this witch into her home. It couldn’t be avoided, even if Garlick arrived with a wooden stake strapped to her belt. It was how things were done, after all.  
  
  
  
  
“A vampire?” said Magrat. “Really?”  
  
“Really,” said the innkeeper. He had a mildly fascinated look on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe that an individual purporting to be the queen of a small country had just arrived, shook snow off her boots, and requested a place to stable her horses and a room for the night, or that this same individual claimed not to have known that the vampiric aristocracy had an important political foothold in Uberwald, or that he was now passing on a clacks message from the de facto leader of the vampiric aristocracy to this extremely confused, possibly unreal royal.  
  
“Are you really royalty?” he asked suspiciously. This guest had a conspicuous lack of expensive clothing, glittering jewels, and snooty footmen, although she did have a number of multicolored crystals strung on a necklace. Perhaps she’d been robbed on the way.  
  
“Yes,” she said distractedly. “But really a vampire? She really invited me to dinner?”  
  
The innkeeper nodded.  
  
“Well, I certainly won’t be going,” announced Magrat.  
  
The innkeeper was aghast. “What? But—it’s the Lady Margolotta!”  
  
“I have no intention of being dinner,” said Magrat haughtily. “I’ve dealt with vampires before, and—”  
  
“You won’t _be_ dinner, if that’s what you’re worried about,” said the innkeeper, wondering if perhaps he’d stumbled into an alternate dimension. “She’s a Black Ribboner, don’t you know.”  
  
“A what?”  
  
  
  
  
Magrat still had quite some time before the coronation and the impending fang-filled dinner party. She also had an appointment with the Low King for a quick half-an-hour meeting after the big shindig. She had the sneaking feeling that it had been arranged last-minute. It wasn’t as if they had major trade agreements to sort out. And apparently she might have also had an invitation from some werewolf clan that ruled the area, but it seemed that they had overlooked her. She decided to be glad about that.  
  
She spent the time sightseeing. The Chocolate Museum was interesting, and she bought some souvenirs at the gift shop. Being a tourist was a nice feeling, although it was strange to go around without young Esme at her side.  
  
She was still a bit ansty after the recent… business… with the christening ceremony and the Magpyrs and everything that had followed. Between that and what she’d heard about this Margolotta person, it was hard to fight the instinct to drop everything and rush back home to Lancre. She _knew_ how parties with vampires went.  
  
The only problem was that, well, Lancre was a very small country, and they were still recovering after fighting off the Count. The main thing she’d gleaned from her conversation with the innkeeper was that refusing the invitation would be akin to an act of war.  
  
So, she decided, she would attend the coronation, and then she would attend this dinner party. She would be cautious and wary and _armed_ , but she would go.  
  
And speaking of dinner, she had another pressing matter to deal with: the food.  
  
Magrat was aware that the inn food was some kind of local cuisine, and therefore complaining would be extremely insensitive. “It’s—lovely,” she choked out. She swallowed another sip of the liquid that could loosely be called soup. “What’s in it?”  
  
“Fat, your majesty,” said the innkeeper. “And broth of stuff.”  
  
“That’s delightful,” said Magrat, as the slippery knots of… stuff… in the soup made their greasy way down her throat. “And what exactly is in the, er, stuff?”  
  
“Stuff, your majesty,” the innkeeper said helpfully.  
  
She set down the spoon and looked across the table. It was piled high with food. She’d requested a healthy meal, but she had failed to account for how the Uberwaldean notion of health was primarily focused on absorbing enough calories so as not to die in the snow. She was almost afraid to utter the word ‘vegetable’ for fear that some eldritch god of winter would appear and smack her over the head with a roast boar.  
  
On the day of the coronation, Magrat pulled out the dress she had packed. It was blue and there were tasteful glittery bits along the hem and the cuffs, and she had spotted a patch of bluebells outside the inn she thought she could use to decorate her hair.  
  
Overall, she felt, it was a rather good holiday, vampires aside. The fresh air had done her good, and it was nice to have a vacation that didn’t involve mortal danger—or at least, not at this very moment. She was sure the mortal danger would show up sooner or later. It generally did.  
  
It was a bit of a distance from the inn to the entrance to the great mine that housed the ruler of dwarfdom, but she made it in good time. The moving box that took her down was alarming at first, as she was a witch and no witch could possibly enjoy being caught in circumstances beyond her control, but once the dwarf operating the ‘lift’ explained what was going on, she found it rather interesting.  
  
And then the box stopped moving and the grate came up, and she saw the cavern. Her breath vanished from her lungs. A thousand candles burning in the dark, a thousand stars gleaming below the ground…  
  
(And under the mountain, the heart of the earth shuddered imperceptibly. Something foreign and dangerous had pierced through to its very core. The thing was that Uberwaldean witches were used to confining their activities to their small villages and not interfering in the affairs of the powerful, and the Uberwaldean landscape was shocked to find a witch that was not, in fact, minding her own business.  
  
The ground itself was worried about what was coming. It had _heard_ about Lancre witches.)  
  
Magrat wandered through the reception, pausing to nibble on a few delicate finger sandwiches with cucumber in between _. Ahah!_ thought Magrat, _they do have vegetables!_  
  
She had some past interaction with dwarfs, but it had been tempered by the fact that Lancratian dwarfs did not recognize Verence as King and instead preferred to politely avoid him, and also they were generally too terrified of Granny Weatherwax to have much of a conversation. Before this, she had no idea that dwarfs were capable of such extreme marvels of engineering. She squinted at the shadowed shapes of the steel and timber holding up the roof and though that Verence would have quite liked to examine them.  
  
She glanced at the tray of champagne flutes to her left, each bubble glittering in the low light. And Nanny wasn’t even here to guzzle down three glasses at once and start singing a rude song about hedgehogs.  
  
It was an amazingly cheering thought.  
  
  
  
  
About thirty feet away, Lady Margolotta was listening to a delegate from a minor dwarf clan in the Copperhead region go on and on about mining treaties while she kept an eye on the woman in the blue dress hanging around near the canapés.  
  
Margolotta hadn’t realized who it was at first. Her first thought was _who on earth wears a severed plant bloom in their hair_ , and her second thought was _perhaps it’s some form of human fashion._ Then she processed the red hair and the eyes and connected it to the description Igor had collected for her.  
  
Her next first thought was _THAT is the witch queen of Lancre? She looks so—so—soppy!_ Magrat Garlick was one of those people sadly cursed with a naturally reddened nose and cheeks that either gave them a look of eternal cherubic innocence or the permanent expression of someone about to cry.  
  
Her next second thought was that she had been expecting more necklaces dangling with holy symbols an leather belts with wooden stakes stuck rakishly through them, or at least a metal helmet with wings on.

Her third thought was that the Count Magpyr probably hadn't thought much of her at first either.

And her fourth thought, arriving tentatively on the heels of the others, was that Magrat Garlick was very attractive, actually, and no amount of rational thinking was doing anything to reduce that factor.

"Excuse me," Margolotta said abruptly, interrupting the Copperhead delegate. "There is something I must attend to."

She was aware the prudent thing to do would be to wait and observe before she initiated contact. She walked over anyway.

The Queen of Lancre turned at her approach. She looked slightly surprised. "Hello," she said.

"Are you enjoying the canapés?" Margolotta asked. It was generally a good place to start.

Queen Magrat blinked and looked at the finger sandwich in her hand in a way that told Margolotta clearly that before now she'd had no idea what 'canapé' meant. "Yes, they're very nice. There are a lot of the cucumber ones, though. It's as if they ordered a few hundred of them and decided the party didn't need anything else."

"I've always felt cucumber sandwiches lend a certain panache to an occasion," said Margolotta. "Although perhaps not. We're not always at the height of fashion, here in the mountains."

There was an awkward lull in the conversation, in which the witch awkwardly ate another sandwich and Margolotta just awkwardly shifted in place. She was not used to awkwardness. It was not a pleasant feeling.

"Er, I rather like your necklace," said Queen Magrat. "The bats are very nice. And the pink gemstones... what kind are they?"

"Pink diamonds, I think. That blue suits you, by the way." It suited her very much, in fact. It drew attention to the color of her eyes and the spark of keenness that gleamed in them, seemingly contradicting the rest of her.

"I hear you're here from Lancre," said Margolotta. "How are you enjoying your stay?"

"It's wonderful. Bonk has a beautiful skyline. And the cuisine is—um—interestingly different. Some of the cultural barriers are a bit difficult to get a grip on, though."

"Such as?" Margolotta's gaze was drawn to the swoop of her shoulders, the curve of her collarbone, the pattern of her hair across her dress.

"Well, for one thing, I've been invited to a dinner with a vampire," she said.

Margolotta nearly choked.

Luckily for both of them, that's when the chandelier fell, a troll in a badly tailored suit caught it, and everything went to hell.

The shouting started off confused and got angry, in the way that shouting mobs always do. Margolotta hadn't been looking, godsdammit, but it seemed that someone had rigged the chandelier to drop onto the soon-to-be Low King—her money was on the wolves' ally within Rhys' inner circle, although she still wasn't sure who it was—and His Grace the Duke of Ankh-Morpork had bowled him out of the way. Except all the dwarves had seen was a human who allied with trolls, attacking their king, and now the axes were out and the majority of the guests seemed liable to attack anyone taller than five feet.

So when a deep-downer turned wildly, yelled, and swung his blade toward the Queen of Lancre, Margolotta pulled her out of the way.

Queen Magrat squeaked. The dwarf swung again and Margolota reached out and snapped his wrist through his ceremonial chainmail. Then she turned to Magrat and said, "How about ve get out of here, vhat do you say?"

She wrapped an arm around Magrat's waist and stepped into the air.

It was almost romantic, she reflected as she flew Magrat up the elevator shaft and toward the bright sky above, if you included the flying and candles and left out the panicked dwarves.

They emerged from the shaft and landed on the snow, and then Magrat socked her in the eye.

Margolotta stumbled back, more out of shock than pain.

"Vampire!" Magrat spluttered.

"Witch," said Margolotta. "I did just save your life, you know."

"You—you—you could've _said_ something!"

"Oh yes, I could've said, hello, how are you, I heard you killed a vampire once, vhat a coincidence but I am also a vampire. I can see that would've gone over vell. But you have nothing to fear. I've taken the pledge."

The queen still looked furious and lost. Her hair was in a tangle around her face and her fists were bunched up, and for a moment Margolotta could see how this woman had destroyed the Magpyrs. "I'm not an idiot, I know it doesn't work like that—" Her eyes flared. "Ha! That's it! You've been mind-controlling me this entire time!"

"I have not. I am not stupid," said Margolotta. "I learn from the past."

"The Magpyrs said that too, and look where they are now," Magrat snarled.

Margolotta knew a losing battle when she saw one. "I suppose I'll see you in the week, then," she said, and vanished in a cloud of bats.

As exits go, it was always a suitably dramatic one, and good for escaping awkward situations.

 

 

The sunset was a stunning profusion of light, a brilliant bloom of color to mark the day's last hurrah. Margolotta scowled at it through the gap in the curtains. It was far too early to be awake. She needed her sleep after all the excitement of the past few days. First she'd had to go rescue Sir Samuel Vimes and wait to see if he could escape the wolves as well as the prison cell, and then she'd had the absolute delight of looking on as Vimes systematically destroyed every bit of the little doggies' petty little power grab. In theory it was now time for a well-deserved rest. At least, it would be, if it weren't for—

"Queen Magrat'th coach ith approaching, Your Ladythip," said Igor.

She was coming. Margolotta couldn't _believe_ she was coming.

Nervous? No. Certainly not. She didn't know the meaning of the word.

Which didn't explain why her hands were shaking.

 

 

Magrat couldn't believe she was doing this. She was hovering on a vampire's doorstep while an Igor ushered her in. A vampire. As if she, between the elves and the Magpyrs, hadn't learned her lesson about powerful, attractive supernatural beings and dinner parties.

At least she had brought a wooden stake and a collection of spiritual symbols in her purse.

"Right thith way, Your Majethty," said Igor, leading her through the parlor. She took note of the lacy tablecloths and pink curtains with a bat motif along the hems. The Lady Margolotta was waiting for her in the dining room. The table was already set.

Magrat halted. Their eyes met. _It's not as if she's really that good-looking,_ Magrat thought guiltily, _it's more sort of a general easy confidence that's inherently alluring..._ And she knew it wasn't mind-control that was making her think that. Her mind was clear, not fuzzy, and she may have a tendency toward occasional soppiness but she wasn't an idiot.

"Alright," said Margolotta. "We might as vell get this out of the way. I am not about the break my pledge and turn you into the third course. Ve are already eating scallops and I am sure they are more delicious than you, no offense."

Magrat's gaze narrowed. "Are you really telling me you can just switch the craving off? Because the Count Magpyr tried to stop being a vampire, and it didn't work."

"I am not interested in stopping being a vampire. I just don't believe blood drinking has to be a part of that. The trick is to shift the fixation onto something else. To control one's worst self, to choose vhat you hunger for.. surely you can understand it?"

Magrat opened her mouth to say that no, she couldn't understand it, not after the Magpyrs had tried to hurt her child, but then she paused. Margolotta's wounds rang with sincerity. And if she was honest with herself, the concept of _choosing what you hunger for_ , of knowing exactly who you were and who you wanted to be, was a key part of being a witch.

"Sit down," said the vampire, taking advantage of her momentary speechlessness. Igor pulled out a chair for her (she was too busy thinking to startle at how he appeared more or less from thin air) and she collapsed into the seat.

"You said you shifted the blood fixation onto something else," said Magrat. "What is it?"

"Self-control."

"No, not how, what?"

"You misunderstand," said Margolotta. "Self-control _is_ what I crave. Every day and in every vay. In the company of some, however, I find it harder than usual."

She flashed Magrat a smile, and Magrat felt a blush suffuse her cheeks.

 

 

The dinner was excellent, and it included a host of vegetables and vitamins that Magrat had previously assumed to be foreign to the Uberwaldean culinary world. Igor appeared frequently to serve one dish or another, each time under mysterious circumstances. Magrat didn't inquire as to how because she had already met an Igor in the past, and because she was too busy with the woman on the other side of the table.

"Do you always wear flowers in your hair?" Margolotta asked.

"Yes," said Magrat. "It's always felt like carrying a piece of springtime around with me."

The conversation drifted in various directions. Magrat asked about politics and was fascinated by the answer; everything was more complicated in this vast country. Margolotta asked about the Magpyrs and listened with a fascinated awe as Magrat described the events of Esmerelda's christening. They found themselves talking about folk music, and the theater, and all the odd and endearing personalities of Magrat's coven and Margolotta's Black Ribboner circle. They talked about the forests and mountains of their homes, and first Magrat recounted her time in Genua and then Margolotta described her travels across the Plains.

Light glowed gently from the lamps in the corners and glimmered along the curls of Margolotta's dark hair. As they approached the dessert course, their hands came closer and closer together on the table until they were nearly touching.

Eventually exhaustion began to catch up with Magrat. "I should be going," she said.

"Of course," said Margolotta, rising along with her guest. She hesitated for a fraction of a second. "And if you have time before you leave, please—feel free to visit again."

"I'll try," said Magrat, a little breathless. They were very close to each other now. All she had to do was lean in a few inches, and...

Magrat kissed her.

 

 

The earth began to quiet. It was aware that something important had happened, but it couldn't discern its exact nature. It sensed that some sort of crisis had been averted, and an entirely unexpected situation had arose. Giant slabs of dirt are generally not well versed in interpersonal relationships or the possible economic and political ramifications of a future alliance between the tiny country of Lancre and powerful Uberwald (or at least the parts of Uberwald that wore a black ribbon and looked to the Lady Margolotta as their leader). All the mountains knew whas that in some small but important ways, the world had been ripped apart and sewn seamlessly back together.

This is a process that humans refer to as falling in love.

 

 

Magrat spent an afternoon sitting on her bed in the inn, staring blankly at a crack in the plaster and thinking. She thought about her husband, and her baby girl, and how she had spent virtually all her life being small and polite and good-natured and wholly unsurprising, except for a few important interludes in which her life had been in danger. She thought about what Granny Weatherwax would say. She probably wouldn't approve. She thought about how being a witch necessarily involved a certain disregard for the rules. And then she sat down and wrote a letter.

Several days later, when the post arrived, King Verence II read it carefully. When he was finished, he went down to the library and set about finding a book that would tell him what 'polyamory' meant.

 

 

It was almost a month after Magrat had left to return home; almost a month after their third dinner and, indeed, their third kiss. Margolotta was taking a stroll outside, and she came across a patch of bluebells, the kind that Magrat wore in her hair. Margolotta stared at them for a while, and then she made a decision.

"Igor," she said.

"Yeth, Your Ladythip?"

"Prepare a coach to travel to Lancre." 


End file.
